


𝐌𝐎́𝐍𝐀𝐂𝐎

by morbidlypicturesque



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Heist, Lara Croft vibes, M/M, POV First Person, Partners in Crime, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sexism, Terminal Illnesses, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but we love them, slap vodka on it and lets roll, some really fucked up love triangles, the worst, they are bad people alright
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25738750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morbidlypicturesque/pseuds/morbidlypicturesque
Summary: 𝐈'𝐌 𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑:𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺  □𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯   □𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺  □𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦   ✗in which, to pull off the greatest heist in the history, El Profesor seeks out the art student-turned thief on the run after a robbery gone south and a target on her back
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Original Female Character(s), Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote/Original Female Character(s), Denver | Daniel Ramos/Mónica Gaztambide, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Palermo | Martin Berrote & Original Female Character(s), Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina, Rio | Aníbal Cortés/Tokyo | Silene Oliveira
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	1. 𝐌𝐎́𝐍𝐀𝐂𝐎

* * *

## 𝐌𝐎́𝐍𝐀𝐂𝐎

* * *

**exitus acta probat.**

**_(_ ** _the outcome justifies the deed_ **_)_ **

**...**

My name is- no. This is not how its supposed to start. 

67 hostages. 11 days. 9 robberers. 2.4 billion euros.

One immaculate plan - taking over the Royal Mint of Madrid with no casualties,

no spilled blood, no personal problems getting in the way.

And somehow, we managed to fuck up.

My name is Monaco and this... this is a story of how I died. 

* * *

emeraude toubia as

-ˋˏ 𝐌𝐎́𝐍𝐀𝐂𝐎 ˎˊ-

  
━━━ "𝐒𝐨, 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 **𝐋𝐚𝐫𝐚** **𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐭**?"

"𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 **𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫**." ━━━

* * *

  
**PROPERTY OF MINISTERIO DEL INTERIOR**   
**GOBIERNO DE ESPAÑA**   
  


  
  
  
━━━ **"** **𝐀** 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬, 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧. **"**  
  
  
  
  
  
  


𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐋

𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍  
  
  
  
  


𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: **classified** 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: **classified**

𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐬: Mónaco 

𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: adopted - **classified**

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡: Roma, Italia

𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡: 30. October 1987.

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞: Madrid, Spain ( as of 2017.)  
Bologna, Italia

𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭: 168cm 

𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭: 57kg

𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫: brown 

𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫: dark brown, dyed

𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: Spanish, Italian  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭

• did not resist arrest on both occasions  
• March 19th 2005. arrested for possession of 1000€ worth of cocaine and 17 ecstasy pills

↳ released with a paid bail of 10 000€ and six months of community work due to being a minor adult

• September 23th 2011. arrested while breaking into a room at Hôtel de Paris, Monte Carlo as a part of a crime ring operating on _Côte d'Azur_ since 2008.

↳ In her possession were found; 11 _Rolex_ watches, one _Bvlgari_ emerald necklace worth 25,500€, two _Cartier_ yellow gold bracelets worth 5460€, a dozen wedding bands of minor worth. It is suspected that this was not the entire loot, but the remaining property is still untraceable.

↳ sentenced to ten years at _Soto del Real_ but released after six months on good behaviour and forbidden entry into Monaco for the rest of life.  
  
  
  
  
  


𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝

• The individual was noted to be unusually calm during both arrests, almost as if unconcerned by the punishment she will receive for her actions.

• From the interactions with the interrogator and the attorney during the second trial (October 2011.) we can conclude the accused expresses a sense of entitlement through her manner of speech and no visible expression of guilt for the committed crime.

• During psychiatric evaluation prior to transportation to _Soto del Real_ the prisoner was diagnosed with lighter sociopathic tendencies due to no outward expressions of emotion and several other concerning compulsive behaviours expressed during the serving of the sentence.

** More in the medical file. **


	2. 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐳

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which she has a painting under her bed and he has a plan

**_UNO_ **   
**_(_ ** _never steal a velasquez._ **_)_ **

**...**

**IF SOMEONE HAD ASKED ME** two years ago where I'd be right now, I would tell him something along the lines of 'having brunch at The Ritz', or perhaps 'lounging around my newly acquired mansion somewhere in the Alps' where there were _no fucking tourists_ like in the centre of Madrid. 

And that is exactly where I was, pushing through the sweaty pile of Americans staring at the neoclassical facade of _Congreso de los Diputados,_ eyes wide open and drinking in every word coming from the translating headset. It featured me, trying to and failing miserably, to pass without being elbowed or squished between the pudgy balls of sweat in I ♥ MADRID shirts and the statue of poor Miguel de Cervantes probably perspiring under the 38 °C Spanish sun. 

The saddest part was, in no calculations, in no plan _Z_ or _43_ or _Epsilon_ did I expect to find myself hiding under a badly cut blonde wig and a pair of teashades while I sneaked out to buy some strawberry yoghurt and cigarettes — the sustainable breakfast of champions and fugitive art thieves — in a local supermarket near the apartment I rented a few weeks ago.

 _Keep your head down, nice and casual,_ the silly mantra repeated itself like a broken gramophone as I pushed into the hole-in-the-wall shop, cursing all the deities when the door scrapped loudly against the cheap, peeling linoleum lining the floor. The cashier deigned to take her nose out of her magazine for a moment to shoot me a withering glare.

Shrinking into my light shirt, I marched straight for my yoghurt, making sure to keep my eyes trained on the sticky linoleum.

Even the reflection of my hollow appearance on the refrigerator's glass door mocked me, picking at the ashen colour of my skin, the permanently tense set of jaw. No one could recognise the person staring back at me from the reflective glass. At least, I hoped so.

And I don't need another judgmental mirror in my life, the one hanging above my sink does just fine.

It started, as many things did; with a marvellous, beautiful, supposedly well-thought-out heist.

Two Ming dynasty statues and a vase was all we had to snag from the _Museo Arqueolgico Nacional,_ a routine job with my regular colleagues that shared my affinity for a fine antique and pretty price that came with smuggling precious artefacts over the Spanish borders.

Despite not being the friendliest bunch of criminals on the block, they were a good connection to the international art dealers, something I was in desperate need of to get myself on stable footing ever since I traded the picturesque Italian living for the scorching streets of the country I remembered only from vague childhood memories and short family trips — Spain.

But the wicked fate brought me to the restoration room during the sweeping of the perimeter around the Chinese room, and conveniently in front of the piece that must have just been brought out of a stuffy archive to bring it back to its former glory. Led-tin-yellow and ochres danced around the 17th century canvas, morphing into a smoky scene tinted with details in smalt and deep carmine. There was only one painter it could belong to, one whose biography I knew better than Genesis.

What kind of idiot leaves a priceless painting overnight in a plain sight, as it waits to be brushed and polished until all its colours returned to their original splendour? One's stupidity turned into my profit and in a matter of minutes the centuries old painting was carefully taped around my torso, hidden by the layers of clothes and secured.

Inevitably, even the seemingly perfect heists somehow go downhill, or in our case someone's foot accidentally touches the red laser line surrounding the glass encased statues.

The alarms blared, most likely waking half the city while we were slowly being locked in by the security protocols going off one by one. I'm not proud of what I did — hell, for all my vices I never, ever leave my partners in crime to hang, except this one time. And that other time in Naples, but that's quite irrelevant for our story.

There was no way I could've possibly helped them as they were right in the middle of the laser web, unable to move lest the enable any more of the security protocols. Bolting out of the restoration room, I reached the ventilation shaft through which we were supposed to make our exit, closing it behind me and thus leaving unscraped while my colleagues were arrested for an attempt to steal national treasure.

It was only a matter of time before the rest of my former team placed a bounty on my head. For all I knew, they probably think I ratted them out to the police.

And there was quite the scandal about the disappearance of Velasquez's painting during the night of robbery which only added the years of incarceration to their sentence.

Naturally, I had to disappear, and where better than right in front of their nose? Madrid became my sanctuary, my haven, my impending demise.

I hid the precious national treasure in an old, rolled up carped under the bed, making sure to instruct the landlady not to let any of the cleaning ladies in. Poor Diego was certainly turning in his grave. 

As casually as possible, I reached for the yoghurt on the shelf, making my way through the rows of refrigerators and people with their shopping carts. Over the years I mastered the art of inconspicuously scratching the bar code until there was nothing left, nothing to beep once I walked out of the door.

It never ceased to amaze me how, over the millennia of human evolution, the tiny tweaks in our genetic code made us into advanced versions of our ancestors, moulding, reshaping, enhancing our senses against the ever changing force of nature.

Even before our favourite resident philosopher — Aristotle — defined the five primary senses with which we grasp onto our realties, the early humans were well aware of the unpleasant tingling feeling that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up straight in alert, the searing discomfort of unfamiliar eyes boring into their heads.

Led by the inherent instinct to face your foe — the very same one that ensured the survival of the fittest back in the days of twig spears and fuzzy mammals — one tends to turn around, ready to confront the lurker in the shadows.

Or, in my case, the scruffy looking, bespectacled man I noticed stealing glances at me over the wilted lettuce heads, conveniently looking away every time I raised my head.

An icy pang of dread flashed down my spine as I made a turn through the diary section, making sure to keep my eye out for the suspect. There he was, inconspicuously observing the label on the can of peas as if it was the masterpiece of our era.

There was no way they would send a nerdy, lit professor to execute me. But then again, the most unsuspecting ones prove to be the most dangerous.

Throwing the hope of shopping out of the window, I let my feet carry me out of the shop in long, purposeful strides. The drastic change of temperature between the air conditioned supermarket and scorching street only added to the nausea creeping up my throat.

He couldn't really off me in the middle of a crowded square, right? Possible colateral victims and all the jazz. The _paperwork_.

Every time I picked up the pace, so did he, in an increasingly worrying pattern as I zig-zaged through the square and into the web of alleys that led to my apartment.

I've never been more thankful than in the moment I saw those ugly, plastic doors with number 34b slapped right next to them.

Reaching the corner that led up the stairs, I plastered myself against the refreshingly cold concrete of the wall, counting breaths until the man came through the creaky door and headed up the stairs right next to my hideout.

The entrance door squeaked open. _Six seconds until impact._ Dress shoes tapped against the tiles, echoed through the entrance hall.

Cool touch of steel pressed against the man's forehead, nudging his head slightly backwards. "You have thirty seconds to talk before I spray your brains over that wall right there," I warned, nodding towards the white wall full of advertisements behind him.

The threat made him put his hands up in surrender immediately.

"Please, I know there are people out there looking for you, and I know why. Allow me to explain," he made a move to get something out of the inner pocket of his brown suit jacket. My grip on the gun tightened, pushing firmly into the skin of his forehead for safety measures.

What he ended up producing left me much more alert than any kind of weapon; several polaroids clearly depicting me escaping _Museo_ , the security camera footage I was more than one hundred percent sure I destroyed as soon as I escaped. How the _hell_ did this guy get his pale little hands on it?

"I have a proposition that will certainly interest you, if you would hear me out," the man visibly swallowed before pushing his glasses back up for what must have been tenth time in the last minute, his vary gaze never leaving the barrel of the gun still pointed to his head. "Without the gun, please."

Weighing my choices — either shooting him then and there and throwing him down the elevator chute, or taking him upstairs - I let out a resigned sigh. "Upstairs," motioning up the stairwell with a sharp nod, the muzzle of the gun quietly pressed itself against the back of his brown, long-out-of-fashion suit. 

I have no warrant with my name on it, but it was bound to happen quite soon. I've gotten sloppy in the last few months, leaving far too many loose ends in a frenetic need to do _more_ in case the inevitable happens.

Whether I liked it or not, I was a dead woman walking, with nothing to lose and, if I played my part well, everything to gain.

Pushing the lanky man into my apartment, I lingered by the door for a moment, checking the hallway for any unwanted parties. I was quick to turn all the locks, throw the awful, itchy wig off my head, gesturing for my _guest_ to take a seat.

Only once the room was submerged in darkness, save the lamp hanging above the kitchen table did I finally sit opposite of the man, waiting for him to speak. Funnily enough, it resembled an interrogation. Life had a cruel sense of humour.

"What would happen if I told you you could retire with 2.4 billion in your pocket?" He spoke with articulate precision of a man that repeated this sentence a hundred times in his head before reproducing it right here, right now.

His features had become more clear now that they were illuminated by the icy light of the bauble overhead; the slight beard in the same brown colour as his slightly scruffy hair, the patient but firm set of his eyes staring right back at me, determined were it not for the slight nervous tic produced by my hand still firmly wound around the gun.

A sharp chuckle filled the weighty pause between us.

"I'd tell you to fuck off—" I fished for the cigarettes in the front pocket of my pants, lighting it deliberately, without taking my eyes off the grown man squirming uncomfortably in my dining room. The smoke cleared all the doubts accumulating in my brain. "—and tell me more."

What I did not know, did not calculate in the equation that would hopefully result in a five star early retirement, was attaining something much more valuable than money.

Once again, it started with one marvellous, beautiful, utterly insane heist.   
  
  
  
  
  


**...**


	3. 𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐬

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which it begins, in a dusty classroom in Toledo, with a group of robbers with nothing to lose

**_DOS_ **  
**_(_ ** _bienvenidos._ **_)_ **

  
  
**...**   
  
  
  


**THE MYSTERIOUS SCHOLAR** disappeared as quickly as he appeared to disrupt my existence, leaving a date and coordinates for a place where I was supposed to meet up with my future partners in crime.

The instructions were simple, in theory; pack up all your belongings and leave them in a safety deposit box at the train station so the mystery man can pick it up and bring to the designated location — I had half the mind to suspect that maybe the man simply wanted to rob me, but there was something unexpectedly genuine in the way he acted.

Number one was closely followed by the next step: remove every single trace of your existence from the apartment.

It wouldn't be the first time I had to do it — one of the few things they don't teach you at the Elementary School for Exemplary Thiefs and Delinquents is never to leave anything the police or your adversaries might use against you.

In the very beginning of my career that meant shower-caps and a lot of bleach.

The rectangular monstrosity that resembled a clock chimed uncomfortably, and I was left to ponder over the business offer, and all the zeroes that came with it.

I could get up and smuggle myself out of the country, empty my Swiss vaults and become a hermit — a rich one, mind you — somewhere in the Pacific, or perhaps return to Italy — no. I said my goodbyes to that country the moment _he_ told me to leave his apartment and forget the address. There was nothing to go back to anymore, except the empty shell of a man my former best friend became.

Instead I stared ahead, in the same place as the hour passed, eyes transfixed on the way the falling ash clumped on the scarred surface of the table in neat little clumps.

It was time to disappear.  
  
  
  
  


**...**   
  
  
  


**TOLEDO COUNTRYSIDE**   
_156 DAYS BEFORE THE HEIST_   
  
  
  
  


**THE BUILDING WAS OLD** , a bit on the crumbly side, but relatively homely in its aged glory. And the rooms were spacious enough to house us comfortably, a person to each, divided across the hallway and sharing one bathroom on the first floor and the other one on the ground floor.

High ceilings that made our steps echo through the house, a dining room that itched to be filled with talk and laughter, a scent of some other time still locked between the walls and their peeling paint. Decades old furniture and paintings covered by white sheets I couldn't wait to rip off and take a peak at what lay beneath. _Your historian is showing,_ I reprimanded myself while we were led up the stairs.

No buildings anywhere in sight either, only trees and a meadow stretching far and wide. A reassuring sight for the sake of our privacy, and the training we would undoubtedly need to undertake.

Just as I went for the desk in the front row, I was nearly thrown off my axis by one of the fiercest men I've ever encountered, all leather and a thick beard covering the lower part of his face. One swat of his hand and I'd be splattered across the floor, entirely unattractively and making a rather tragic first impression.

Fortunately, he was quick to steady me, grabbing my upper arm before I could even stumble. "Oh, sorry," I winced slightly, rubbing the spot where he gripped it.

The man reacted with an awkward nod, almost shy for such an imposing appearance. "Thanks for that," I offered him a tight smile, adjusting the houndstooth tweed blazer that covered my arms.

The taller one behind him patted his colleague's shoulder, going for the seat in the third row. "Pusti bre da lepa devojka prođe," he told him in gruff Serbian, probably expecting no one to understand what he was saying.

"Zahvaljujem, momci," came my reply, savouring the way both of their eyebrows shot up to their hairline. Summers spent on the coasts of Adriatic finally paid off.

Another voice joined them from the other column. "Holy fuck, was that Russian?" piped up the woman in fur coat, revealing a pair of wide, brown eyes once she removed the huge shades off of them and perched them upon her head.

"Serbian," one of the bearded men replied shortly.

A polite, but nervous cough cut off our chatter, all of us facing forward to watch as the man that brought us here grabbed a piece of chalk and turned to the deep green board. It was the weirdest class ever assembled.

There were ten of us in the cramped, messy classroom, walls plastered with blueprints and charts I could only stare in wonder at. A patchwork of ages and colours, of ambitions and ethics, and I could help but allow my curious eye to wander over my new colleagues.

Nine robbers and the brain of the operation — or if I were to be more precise, eight robbers, a boy barely out of puberty that kept bouncing his leg up and down in the opposite column, and the man that picked us out of the crowd, out of the unending basin of thieves Spain' buffet had to offer.

We end up simply calling him _El Profesor_ , though I quite like the idea someone pitched in about code name _Toledo_. I have quite the record for professors offering me heists. I mean, it's quite symbolic — my first and the last heist being orchestrated by a bespectacled nerd that probably spent most of his life dreaming up, writing up a perfect plan, taking in every variable, every situation, until it swallowed his entire existence.

Like a novel writer, for example, only masterminds like him made much more money.

The white chalk screeched against the chalkboard, harshly and painful to my ears, materialising a neatly underlined **_BIENVENIDOS_** _._

"I'd like to thank you all for accepting this, er, job offer," he began, trying not to, as inconspicuously as possible, to meet anyones eyes; a manner which oozed of social anxiety in its most common form. "We will live here, far away from the maddening crowd. We will stay here for five months while we study this heist."

"What do you mean, five months?" asked the man up front, dressed in a seasonally inappropriate sweater. It was _September_ for Christ's sake. "Are you mad?"

But, what was five months in comparison for all the money we were promised to get in the end? If anything, it seemed a tight fit — large scale heists could take years of meticulous planning and rehearsing of every single move.

The Professor patiently raised his hand, taking a seat on his desk. "Look. People spend years in school, to end up with a salary that, even in the best of cases, is kind of shitty." I had to agree with him — even if I had finished college, the best I could have hoped for was a place as an art teacher in a high school, or worse, elementary.

"What are five months? I've been thinking about this..." he took a moment of pause, seemingly deep in though, mulling over the years, the decades of his life that he had spent planning this one perfect heist, "... for much longer. So I would never have to work again. And neither will you. Or your children."

The atmosphere in the room shifted, all of us sitting up a little straighter than before. We were all here for a different reason, a different goal at the end of the road, but one thing was as clear as a day. None of us had anything left to lose.

He nodded slightly, to himself, then moved to the blackboard. "Right. We don't know each other, and we'll keep it that way. I don't want any names, or personal questions, and of course—" he paused for a moment, as if he attempted to swallow something peculiarly sour. 

"—no personal relationships."

A snort almost escaped me, and several looks of disbelief were shared around the room. The professor was either a virgin or a sociopath who failed to register that the girl with the _ankh_ choker was already eyeing up the youngster in the grey hoodie with a predatory predicament.

She looked cheery enough, charming with her modernly cut bob and a pair of dark eyes that foretold plenty of trouble. And she was just that, a trouble on two lean legs, a girl barely two years my junior and a wanted criminal for a series of bank robberies, the last of which ended up with a dead boyfriend and an arrest warrant.

But we all had skeletons in our closet.

"I want each of you to choose a name, something simple. It can be numbers, planets, cities..."

"Okay. So I can be Mister 17 and someone can be Mister 23?" said the young man with a chain around his neck, something akin to the American rappers on 2005 MTV channel. Then he proceeded to laugh — and, _my God,_ was that a laugh. It could've been an open fire assault on our ears for all we knew.

"That's a wrong start. I can't remember my telephone number," sighed the older man in his sweater, prompting another wave of discomforting laughter to spill from the boy's mouth.

"That's why I said that."

"And planets? I can be Mars, and he Uranus," said the guy in the hoodie, pointing at the jean jacket in front of him.

"I won't be Uranus, so forget it," he scoffed, not in the least amused by the boy's third grade attempt at humor.

"What's the matter with Uranus?"

I shifted in my chair to exchange an amused look with the man sitting behind me. And did I have something to see. Men are like wine — the expensive ones tend to age very well, and this man was a '64 Rioja, dark and handsome, expensive in every possible way, and made sure we were aware of it seeping through the cracks of his devilish smile.

It was quite comforting to find someone as enthusiastic about appearances as I was, and equally intimidating.

Jean jacket shot a glare at the boy behind him. "I don't like the rhyme."

"Cities," The Professor stopped us firmly. "We'll use cities."

That's how I became _Mónaco_ , a nod to one of the greatest periods of my life, filled with never ending summer and jewels the size of a peach, a paradise that remained so close and so out of my reach. A wish, a dream I rolled up and let it burst into flames. One wrong move, one drink too many, and one thing I'll regret for the rest of my life.

The Serbian cousins I bumped into became _Oslo_ and _Helsinki_ , fitting names for two men as fierce and cold as their toponymic counterparts. They were war veterans, deadly silent and seasoned by the harsh conflict that ripped through the Balkans more than two decades ago.

They were not the only ones that were previously acquainted — _Moscow_ and _Denver_ gave a perfect show of a father and son dynamic, a lighthearted banter that brought a smile to everyone's face. One could only hope that their familial tie wouldn't become a liability during the heist.

The old man used to be a miner until he realised he could profit more from digging upwards, and now, he was crucial in getting us out of the designated location. And while the father dug, the son had his knuckles painted blood red — he could be a time bomb, or the best possible asset.

While our mastermind remains outside the arena, inside we'll be led by the sharply cut man behind me who took the name _Berlin_. No one in their right mind would dare to go against the man whose eyes swept the room so calculatedly, devoid of any emotion. Predatory.

I always did like to play with the authority.

The fur-clad woman in the back was _Nairobi_ , our resident counterfeit, a girl with a dangerously optimistic spark in her eye; the youngster in the grey hoodie became _Rio_ — a computing wizard, also known for his legendary hacking into the Ministry of Defence.

Each and every one of them had an extraordinary talent that made them unexpendable to the team. _So, why was I here?_

"Think that every day they'll talk about us in the news. And every family in the country will be wondering what we're doing. And you know what they'll think?" He paused, letting the question linger in the air. "They'll think "Those motherfuckers! I wish I'd though of that first.""

"We're not stealing anyone's money. They'll even like us," he elaborated, pushing his glasses up. "And that is vital. It's vital we have the public opinion on our side." The people had the power to make and break the world they lived in, and that was exactly what we relied on.

A tipping scale that required only one grain of resistance to break the system.

"We're going to be the fucking heroes of all those people. But very careful, because the moment there is a single drop of blood — this is very important — if there's a single victim, we'll no longer be Robin Hoods, and we'll simply become sons of a bitch," he stressed seriously, making sure to sweep the room with his eyes.

A raised hand from the back row interrupted his speech. "Professor," the black haired girl I came to know as _Tokyo_ asked. "What are we robbing?" A billion euro question all of us have been wandering the moment we were presented with the job offer.

"Señorita Tokyo," a trace of self-satisfied smirk trickled onto his lips, as if he knew the most amusing thing in the world and we didn't.

The Professor lifted his arm, eyes centring at something behind our backs. We all turned around in our seats, itching with anticipation, craning our necks to see what he was pointing at; the model of a white building in the back of the room.

"La Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre."

And just like that, this entire operation became _much_ more interesting.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**...**


	4. 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐳𝐚

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they talk of plans

_**TRES** _

**(** _provenza_ **. )**

**...**

**TOLEDO COUNTRYSIDE**

_142 DAYS BEFORE THE HEIST_

**IT WAS BERLIN AND DENVER'S TURN** to make lunch, according to the promotional insurance company calendar someone slapped on the fridge door, following a protest led by Nairobi, Tokyo and me for equal redistribution of housework in the house.

The cooking and cleaning partners were chosen randomly, by drawing our code names out of a jar, and so far we had enjoyed a surprisingly delicious cabbage and sausage stew by Oslo and Moscow, and a glazed duck roast with baby vegetables, courtesy of my humble self and Nairobi.

Most were passable experiences, except for The Professor whom we distanced as far from the kitchen as possible, for the sake of his own safety after he nearly pealed off his thumb along with the potato.

How that man managed to live on his own, plan the biggest heist in the history and not die at the hands of a vengeful piece of plastic was beyond me.

The day's apron-wearing pairing slowly turned the evening into something straight out of an intense American cooking show, and it was a decision of mutual agreement that Berlin was Spain's very own Gordon Ramsey.

"What do you mean, you don't taste it," the brunet's face contorted into something out of a horror film, eyes wide open and a mildly horrified expression on his face, "before you season it?"

Denver's eyes nervously flickered over to where the large, sharp knife they used to chop onions laid, only a few inches away from Berlin's hand, most likely itching to be wielded by the self-proclaimed 'refined chef's' twitching hand.

Either the World War Three was about to erupt in the kitchen and/or we were about to be a team member short even before the heist begins.

It took two meals and a conosseurial remark about the fine notes of sage he appreciated in a roast until we came to realise Berlin was a cooking snob, to the point of having five different olive oils in the kitchen cabinet because 'even if we couldn't taste the difference he could'.

Not that I minded, really — I grew up in Italy and I knew the importance of good food for the general happiness and contentment of people.

"And, so? It's just salt, you can't put too many of it," retorted the curly haired spaz, throwing the wet cloth he used to wipe his hands with over his shoulder in unmasked frustration.

To us, the spectators watching the exchange from the dining table, it was hilarious to see a grown man be so offended by a pinch of salt.

"The world is not ending! You're acting like I killed your mother and not just put salt in the sauce before I tried it."

Berlin took off his apron, revealing yet another immaculate suit underneath, sans the jacket which he carefully folded over his chair so it didn't get stained. There was a running bet about the number of suits he had, and twelve days in we counted at least six different ones, all rich fabrics and deep colours, as befitting for a white collar thief such as him.

Who was I to judge him while wearing the newest _Fendi_ tracksuit around the house.

"That's crime against good taste," his lip curled in a sneer, crossing his shirt clad arms, neatly rolled up to the elbow. "Or humanity, whichever you value more."

Hopping off my chair, I crossed the room to save the collateral victim stuck in the crossfire, the one I valued above all else in the room.

"Tranquilo, girls, don't get your panties in a twist," I moved between them, grabbing the bowl with pasta and transporting the precious cargo far away from the two stubborn males.

"Plenty of time for that when we get inside the Mint."

A frizzled head of brown curls shot up from the pile of papers he kept pouring over at the table. "Please, none of that inside the Mint," The Professor told us sternly.

"I have a white and a rosé, what's it gonna be?" called out Nairobi from the hole in the floor that led down to a wine cellar and a storage. We were all pleasantly surprised on the first night when our mastermind revealed a hearty amount of alcohol in the former wine cellar.

"White sauce, white wine," I shot back, nudging Rio away from the bowl so I could set it down in the middle of the table. His cheeky fingers shot out again to uncover the dish, allowing the fragrant smell of scampi and garlic to fill the room.

A small huff could be heard from downstairs and then clinking of glass against glass. "Huh, fair point."

"D'you have any beer in there?" Denver craned his neck over the entrance, squinting while he tried to decipher the shapes in the dark.

Nairobi's head full of dark waves popped out first, levelling the young man with a glare. "See for yourself, do I look like your fucking bartender?" She lifted her hand above her head and Helsinki grabbed it, pulling her out of the cellar effortlessly while Oslo hauled the crate of wine out on the open.

If someone walked in on the scene that laid itself out in the dining room that evening, orange and gold rays of sunshine bowing to the coming night, spilling over the antique table worn down by use and time, it would seem as if he interrupted a very peculiar family reunion.

Every few bites we stopped to chuckle and shoot another remark into the light conversation that flowed between the ten of us almost effortlessly, as if we'd been there, in the crumbling house on the outskirts of Toledo for months already.

It was when we were all stuffed and rummaging around our pockets for a post-dinner cigarette that Rio decided to speak up. 

"What if it goes wrong?" his quiet question made us all stop for a moment."What happens if it all goes wrong?" He looked around the room. It was easy to forget he was the youngest out of all of us, with a few pubescent acne still marring his otherwise smooth face.

"Well, darling the usual," responded Nairobi happily, "Back in prison, the cigarette in the yard, four langoustines at Christmas, and occasional face-to-face visits." It was mildly comforting to know most of the people around me served some jail time, too. The rest of the society is not as accepting.

"We had duck for Christmas last time," I mused in reminiscence. Soto del Real was an experience I wasn't eager to repeat, but I have to compliment their cooks.

"Come on, that's luxury."

Tokyo stabbed at the farfalle on her plate. "What's really fucked-up is if it goes well. What the fuck are we gonna do with that much dough?"

"I'll buy a _Maserati_ , the colour of a clear blue sky, huh?" Denver smiled widely, making us laugh at the picture it painted.

"If you're into tacky shit, sure," I snorted, taking a sip of my drink. If he had heard me, he promptly ignored my words.

"And a martial arts gym. I can see it now," he waved his hands around in excitement, "and a bar, with three floors, huh? With loudspeakers that make your ears bleed." He mimicked the sound of the music beat, wriggling in his chair to the imaginary tune.

"He's got enough with three million." Rio grinned when Moscow slapped the back of his son's head playfully.

"And a pair of lungs for you, because you fucked up yours in the mine," Denver gave his father an affectionate grin.

Moscow shot an amused look at his son. "You're spending your money on a pair of lungs? Good heavens! And where the fuck are you going to find some lungs?"

"People are selling kidneys, aren't they? There's got to be people selling lungs, I think," he shrugged his shoulders. "Are there, Mónaco?" Surprised to have been addressed on the matter, I shrugged lightly.

"Sure there are, you want me to make a few calls?"

"What about you, Berlin?"

Our heads turned towards the most mysterious of us, the darkly handsome, tall man that sunk in the shadows of the room, observing us while we laughed and shared stories. It could have been expected, from the man that was supposed to coordinate us once the heist starts, to sit back and observe our actions in order to be a leader suited to us, but I still couldn't help but feel unease when his clear, calculating gaze fell on me.

The Serbs didn't talk much, mainly because of the language barrier, but they could be read easily, like an open book. Berlin was an ornately inscribed book that revealed a something dangerously unclear underneath an opulent facade.

"Me? A winery in Provence," Berlin leaned off the wall and walked over to where we all sat together. "A two-hundred fifty acre vineyard to cultivate my own wine, oak barrels..." he held up his refiled glass of _Albariño_ with a dramatic flair.

Unintentionally, he piqued my interest as I would have never taken him for a man made for French meadows and eternal springs, but rather Scottish manors and strict, cold lines that resembled the ones of his pressed suits.

"But, man, you can go to any supermarket why the hell you want and buy whatever fucking bottle you want," Rio furrowed his brows. "Why do you want a winery?"

"For art," Berlin replied simply, his seriousness provoking another round of laughs around the table.

I took it as my cue to finally butt in the conversation. "It would be quite unfortunate if we ended up being neighbours," I teased slightly, making him chuckle and take a seat. "Provence is heaven on earth. I want a lavender field, like the ones grown on the Adriatic. And a baroque _chateau_ , to house all my paintings." My thoughts wandered over to the rolled up canvas in my room, hidden under the bed.

"What's a chat-eh?" Denver cut in, French rolling clumsily over his tongue.

"A castle for a princess," Berlin shot me a knowing smile over the rim of his glass.

"Well, I want an island," Tokyo announced.

A cheeky grin followed a knowing look shot in her direction by Rio. "I want another one."

"And a third one," added Denver, not wanting to be excluded.

"Three's a crowd."

"An archipelago!"

Rio shook his head. "No, I want a little island that has a huge house, you know? With a small balcony next to the sea. I'll wake up every morning and dive into the water."

"At least someone's intelligent," Moscow piped up, pointing towards the youngest in the room.

"I think some of us have to sort some things out first, right?" said Nairobi, stretching over the table to fish a cigarette out of someone's box. "Well, I know I do. And then, with what's left, I'll buy a plane. And I'll pilot it."

Tokyo scrunched her eyebrows. "You could have a hot pilot."

"No, you don't get it, the best thing is to show off to the man in the control tower: _I need a runway for the star,_ " she mimicked speaking into a phone, making the rest of us laugh again. It was easy to grow fond of her, her easy way of joking and contagious positivity that seemed to seep out of her very being.

"If we buy all those things let's say for a price ... I don't know, an expensive price, a very expensive price," The Professor spoke up for the first time in a while, mostly occupied with making little origami's out of paper sheets in front of him, "we'd still have a hell of a lot of money left. If we're robbing big, then dream big."

There was a heavy truth in his words, but it was difficult to dream. When you lived like a thief, a criminal like us, there was no time to step back and think of the ideal future you could build one day. Even the best of us lived day by day, one eye trained to look over your shoulder at all times.

Even if this heist succeeds, how long will it take until I'm bored of sunbathing and travel, and feel the crave and thrill of a safe cracking open beneath my hand?

Moscow's voice broke me out of my musing. "I'd record an album, singing _corridos_. And my face on the cover," he posed with one of his eyebrows raised, making us chuckle.

"You'll be like Bertín Osborne, only thirty kilos fatter."

"Whoa! What are you saying?" Moscow sat up, offended that Rio had the audacity to compare him to the famous vocalist. "Bertín sings _rancheras_ , I said _corridos_ , which is something very different," he lectured us sternly.

"Show them what a _corrido_ is, Dad. Show them," said Denver excitedly.

Moscow is quick to shake his head. "I'm not going to sing!" But neither Denver, nor the rest of us would take no for an answer and we eventually managed to wear him down.

He's stood up with a laborous sigh, though the corner of his mouth turned upwards with a smile and his eyes crinkled with delight as he belted out first notes of _Maria, mi vida, mi amor._

Denver joined him, putting on a show as they danced around the room. Moscow pulls Tokyo to her feet, followed by Oslo and Helsinki, and they all spin around to our applause and Moscow's singing. Nairobi tugged on my hand, and I didn't resist being pulled onto the makeshift dance-floor, joining in the delightfully chaotic scene.

In those little moments we shared, the laughs and the good wine, I could feel us becoming closer and that thought left a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

* * *

**ONCE THE PROFESSOR, AND OTHER** elder members of our group, including Moscow, the Serbs and Berlin, decided to retire for the night, us who remained behind hoarded the leftover wine bottles and some blankets, and stretched over the deck chairs on the balcony.

"What did you do, before this?" Nairobi asked Denver, throwing her legs over my lap. I let out an over exaggerated sigh, making the rest laugh, but didn't push her away.

"Before my Dad brought me along I was a bouncer at this club on Ibiza, five star and Moët by the buckets," he jumped to his feet, taking a boxer's stance and punching the air in impressively swift motions.

"Wham-wham-wham, fist, blood, teeth, fight every night," Denver let out another wave of his trademark laughs, making us join in again. "I'm gonna be your muscle in the Mint, ladies," he threw a cheeky wink our way.

Once he fell back onto his deck chair, Nairobi turned to me. "You, Mónaco? You look like you steal diamonds for living," her eyes lingered on the earrings and rings I had on my fingers, and I subconsciously touched them.

"I used to be an art student," I admitted, "I suppose living in Italy had its perks because I was exposed to all the wonders of our imagination from a young age. I even lived in a medieval city, spent all my time just watching, appreciating the beauty of human expression."

With a chuckle, I couldn't help the michevious smirk that spread over my lips. "But then I realised, stealing it is much more fun."

It started off small, of course, as everything in life does. Especially addictions. The first taste came with the small bottles of shampoo in the hotel I was staying with my parents, and overpriced souvenirs in the local gift shop. By college my taste had refined, hungry eyes and itching fingers craving for the touch of centuries old antiques, small jewelery stores, old books from the University's library.

It was a stroke of luck when _he_ showed up.

* * *

**UNIVERSITÀ DI BOLOGNA, ITALIA**

_MARCH 2007._

**PROFESSOR GINO MAGLIEVOLA** was every girl's dream — tanned skin that complimented his tastefully unruly mop of dark hair, eyes the shade of sea on Amalfi coast and a slight smirk that didn't waver even while he explained the impact of Etruscan infrastructure on the modern sewage system. So when he asked me to stay after class, I knew there were only two possible scenarios that could play out; either I failed a test — which was highly impossible, because I was actually interested in Etruscan engineering — or he wanted to ask for a favour of much more primal nature.

It was unspoken knowledge that he already had an affair with at least two of his former students, and Professor Venchi's assistant. It was also well noted that his optional module was the most popular one in the history of the university.

The young professor waited until the rest of the students filtered out, the girls that passed me throwing vile looks at me, and motioned for me to come closer to his desk. A beat of tense silence passed before he finally spoke.

"I saw your little trick yesterday," he leaned back into his chair, the tight fabric around his shoulders following his movements.

I still hold very fond memories of that baby blue Polo shirt.

"I'm not sure I understand, sir," I shifted awkwardly on my feet. Of course I knew exactly what he was talkinf about, but what kind of excuse do you present to a professor who witnessed a show of your vice?

"Swiping Laura's baroque mirror, very clever. And, if I may add, very experienced." His compliment brought a burning red colour to my cheeks.

It's not like Laura didn't deserve it, flaunting the vintage compact mirror she got for her twentieth birthday to everyone and anyone in her close vicinity. Real pearls and gold plated, she said smugly, papà said it belonged to the Duchess of Savoy. What a coincidence then, that she sat in front of me during a lecture, and I was conveniently provided with a view of her bag, laying open by her seat, the precious mirror just itching to be stolen, to be treasured by someone who knew its true value.

It was sadistically delightful hearing her frantic cries once she found out it was missing.

Gino stood up, walking around the desk while my heart hammered in my throat. "Have you ever done something bigger?" he asked.

He was close, close enough so I could feel his minty scent overwhelm my senses. "You mean like, a heist?" I breathed out.

A charming, boyish grin took over his face. "Precisely like a heist."

Everything forbidden tasted much more enticing.

* * *

" **THAT WAS MY FIRST PROPER HEIST** , five Iron Age amulets, conveniently during the class field trip to Hallstatt," I faced them with a grin, "Don't even ask how we managed to get them over the border." For further reference, it is very convenient to hide precious archeological artefacts in one's Victoria's Secret panties.

"But, the real question is," Nairobi lowered her voice almost conspiratory, "did you sleep with him?"

All the answer they got was a knowing smirk from me.

When the laughter subsided Rio leaned a bit closer. "So, are you like Lara Croft?" I couldn't help but roll my eyes slightly at the comparison.

"Sure," I leaned back casually, accepting the beer from Nairobi's hand. "But hotter."

"Tsk, you do know that your chatter defies the point of the first rule?" A taunting voice appeared at the doorway, and we turned to see Berlin leaning on the frame. "Next thing you know, you'll be breaking all of them."

Of course he had to prove himself to be a proper bastard, shattering all the illusions I wrapped around him since we came to Toledo. It was an A+ for acting, surely, because the man clad in a dressing robe the colour of rich, red wine held himself with polished, lifeless grace, lacking all the semblance of friendliness he appeared to have a few hours ago.

"How do you sit so comfortably? I mean, that golden spoon up your ass must be a real pain," I snarked nastily, not appreciating the patronising tone in which he told us off.

Berlin's eyes flashed dangerously and I could see his eye twitch in annoyance. "Careful, señorita Mónaco, you better learn to take orders quickly or our partnership in the heist might be severely compromised," he hissed, the arrogant, frustratingly attractive way his glare bore into mine spiking the anger rushing through my bloodstream.

My hand clenched into fist at my side. "Well aren't you a bastard with a God-complex." I wanted to go on, allow all the venom into my words, but thankfully Nairobi's firm grip on my shoulder pulled me back.

For a moment everyone was tense, the atmosphere between the two of us crackling with insults that didn't pass our lips, no one daring to say a word so as not to provoke the inevitable clash.

That is, until Denver cracked some stupid joke about scissors, butter and air, followed by a bout of his machine gun laugh. The tension was dissolved and Berlin slunk back into the shadows like a Mediterranean version of Count Dracula, only the stories of monsters failed to scare me as they once did, even when they were wrapped in the elegant confines of a suit and a pair of stunningly cold eyes.


	5. 𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐢́? 𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐢́.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they talk of disguise

  
**_CUATRO_**  
 ** _(_** _dalí? dalí._ **_)_**

  
  
  
  
  
**...**   
  
  
  
  
  


**TOLEDO COUNTRYSIDE**   
_121 DAYS BEFORE THE HEIST_   
  
  
  


**FIRST MONTH OF OUR STAY IN TOLEDO** had passed before we managed to blink, mostly in a blur of going over the steps of the plan, the grand scheme of The Professor's life work. Every day he would unravel yet another essential piece of the plan, seemingly unimportant but crucial if we wanted to get out of the mint alive.

And I most definitely wanted to do that.

"It's vital that the police don't have the faintest idea what we're doing," Professor leaned over the paper replica of _La Fabrica_ , the rest of us crowding around it in a circle. We were in the classroom for hours now, long enough that the sun passed the highest point and slowly drifted westwards.

"We'll make them believe that we came in for a robbery, they caught us leaving with the money, and everything went to shit. We took out our guns, opened fire, and had no choice–" He made a sharp motion with the pen he held in his hand, narrowly dodging Tokyo's nose.

"–but to retreat. And then, without having hurt anyone, we go inside. Let them think we're trapped like rats. Let them think were improvising."

Would it actually be possible to go through with this with every precise step planned out in advance? To me, it seemed impossible. Even Professor must have been aware that we would have to improvise at some point, whether driven by our own ambition or the unpredictability of real life.

Denver raised his hand and asked whether we would have to learn how to preform our false escape, jokingly crossing his arms over his chest. The Professor nodded his head seriously.

"It's as easy and as complicated as a waltz. Go out, throw the money — those will be the traceable bills, impossible for us to use — shoot at the ground and go back inside. Make sure your face is entirely covered the whole time, we can't risk being recognised that early into the heist..."

Noticing the way the people were slumped over their desks or leaning on the walls, half asleep and halfway out of the door. The last straw against the general concentration of our group was when Rio let out a long yawn, reddening in the face once all heads turned in his direction.

Having been cut off mid-speech, the bespectacled professor gave a reluctant sigh. "We'll stop on that for today, thank you. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon." A low cheer ran through the group, slumping against the wall closest to them for a brief second before making their way out.

I stayed behind while the rest of the class filtered out, content with the prospect of a free afternoon on our hands. Even after a month, the files and blueprints that covered the walls never failed to amaze me. It must have truly taken him half a lifetime to organise such heist, as precise as a Swiss clock.

"You said we'll need a disguise, right?" Finally braving myself, I remained firmly planted on my spot by the large blueprint of the Mint pasted to the wall. On the other side of the room The Professor faltered only slightly while collecting his materials.

"Yes, I'm working on that, there are many details that need to be worked out now that you are all here. It's simply one particularity that I could not preorder or prearrange before I had you all here." He would only later admit, after a couple of glasses of deep red, that he did not truly know how many of us would be in the final team. "That, however–"

"I can do it."

The Professor dropped the stack of folders he was holding, their thud against the desk reverberating through the room. "Excuse me, what?"

He let out a sound of opposition. "I've been working on this plan for years."

"Which is admirable, but you're also the only person who could pick out the flaws," I turned on the heel of my boots, coming to face the exasperated intellectual. "A new pair of eyes can provide a valuable insight, like tying up any loose ends, or help out with the details so we don't waste any time."

I let out a frustrated sigh, trying to formulate my explanation as calmly as possible so as not to upset the genius before me. "I mean, I can help. I'd like to help as much as possible and, considering that I did a History of Art degree, I think I could be useful. Whatever disguise we use it must help convey our message, obviously, because every rebellion starts with a symbol and a group of brave men."

It was also due to the fact I felt utterly useless in the entire situation. Sure, I knew my way around complicated heists as well as the rest of the gang, but my seemingly biggest distinction among them was my background.

Something felt just slightly off.

"Thank you–that's–yes, I suppose that could work," it didn't take much to figure out he was uncomfortable with the idea of placing such a responsibility onto someone else, and yet still he reluctantly nodded his head, pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose and grimaced.

I wanted to reach out and pat his shoulder in thanks but quickly decided against it. He looked like one of those germaphobic people who would rather burn the piece of clothing someone else touched. "Thank you, Professor, you won't regret it."

Opting for a wide smile instead, long strides took me out of the room and down the narrow staircase with a renewed vigour, not in the slightest catching The Professor's grim expression.

"I really hope I won't."  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


**"WHY DALÍ?"** Nairobi popped the bubble gum balloon obnoxiously loudly, making sure to smack her gloss covered lips in the process, earning her a pointed glare over the edge of my laptop.

She'd been sitting on one of the chairs for a while, watching me pour over one of the volumes and type the excerpts into a file.

I lowered the screen for a moment, trying to find the way to word the idea that admittedly swirled around my head ever since I heard the plan for the first time. "Because he represents the stand. The resistance. What do you think, how many times did they tell him to stop being an idiot, to bend to society's norms and expectations?"

Using the one hand that was not too busy waving around wildly in the attempt to make a point, I flipped through the dusty post-modernist art dictionary I found on one of the shelves in the library. When the page finally stopped on Salvador Dali's portrait; the curved moustache, high forehead and wild look in his eyes, I thrust it in Nairobi's direction.

"Dali was part of the Dada movement when he was alive, which had ideas about rejecting capitalist society at its heart. Sure, he went on to glorify absolute monarchy and Franco later on — and well, 'ole Adolf, too, but everyone has _some_ flaws — but let's focus on something more fundamental here," the page turned to one depicting his famous _Hallucinogenic Toreador_ , the wild, dancing shapes only living up to the paintings name. It was the idea that mattered.

"He was known as chaos embodied. And you can't have a heist without a little bit of chaos, am I right, _mia carissima Nairobi?"_ I threw her a devilish smirk which she easily returned.

It was a symbol people could identify with, sympathise even. Robin Hoods, that's what Professor told us. A beacon of hope for the oppressed and the rebellious waiting to rise up above the surface and make a change in the system that grossly favoured the affluent.

"How do you fit all of it in your pretty little head, huh?" She reached over the table to mess up my hair, the strands falling unceremoniously out of the half-bun perched on my head. I swatted her hand off.

"Hey, fuck off. It's called being a nerd, which I'm very proud of." Even so, my cheeks heated up, traitorously.

"Sure nerdy birdie, come out when you're done. Prof's given us the rest of the morning off while Rio and Moscow go to get food and booze for the week," she said on departure, disappearing out of the door with a final twinkle of the gold chains around her neck. 

"Yeah, yeah, don't wait up for me."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**FOR THE SAKE OF SOME PEACE** and general contentment of the masses, The Professor let us sleep in on the weekends, the classes starting only at midday, unlike the usual nine o'clocks. It was a small reward for all the drilling, the repetitive schedule imposed upon us with Spartan regime.

Still, no amount of exhaustion could make me calm the incessant race of thoughts making my head spin. Throwing my legs over the side of bed, I checked the hour on the wrist watch that laid on the bedside table. Two thin, golden arrows signalled there was a quarter of an hour to seven, an ungodly hour in every way possible.

With a mournful sigh I threw off my sheets to the side and, careful not to step on the cold tiles instead of the carpet, stacked all the essentials I might need for the morning into my hands. A strong coffee and fresh air was bound to do some good, and so I nestled into one of the unique wooden chairs on the balcony, watching as over the stoney rails sun quietly rose to its task.

  
My half-sleep over the keyboard was interrupted by the screeching of balcony doors. Berlin – I cursed both mine and his existence — closed the door behind him with a swift motion of his foot, gaze finally narrowing when it fell on me.

He was wearing his ridiculous robe, burgundy red and satin, hair still disheveled from sleep — or an attempt of achieving one, something I was familiar with — and a sketchbook tucked underneath his arm.

"Are you here to apologise?" I asked lazily, averting my eyes from the way his glossy robe dipped down his chest, innocently revealing a halfway buttoned up shirt and a whisper of a decent build underneath the layers.

The brunet half scoffed in contempt. "No. I came here to paint in peace, but I suppose that's impossible now," all flamboyance and pretence, he lowered himself on the chair opposite of me, head turned to the glare of the rising morning sun.

With his head tilted slightly to the left, the sun casting a perfect circle around his head, for a moment Berlin resembled a Renaissance saint come to life. All I could do was mutter _drama queen_ underneath my breath.

The disgruntled artist leaned back into the chair, not hiding the scrutinising way he observed my work. "I wonder, why does The Professor think we need you?" He plucked a pencil from one of his pockets, twirling it around his hand. "What is your special, indispensable ability, Mónaco?"

"Your lack of faith in me is disturbing," I retorted drily, finally looking up and resting my chin on the palm of my hand.

"You seem awfully interested in my potential. The real question is, why does this heist mean so much to you?"

He shifts in his chair, leaning on one side in a careless manner. "Why would it not? Wouldn't it be a true jewel of a thief's career to do the impossible, be remembered? We will be creating history with every hour more that we manage to remain in the mint."

"That sounds awfully final," I admitted truthfully. Realising there would be no more work done for now, I closed the laptop entirely and instead fished a packet of cigarettes out of my back pocket. "Want one?" I offered to my unwilling companion as the minimal act of courtesy required.

To my genuine surprise he shakes his head. "I don't tend to smoke this early in the morning."

"But you used to," I couldn't help but point out, my quick tongue darting before my mind could stop it. His hand twitched slightly, and I knew I struck a nerve, if not a memory. It wouldn't be the last time that I noticed a twitch, either.

"Tips of your left hand have a yellowish hue," I go on, raising my right hand and gesturing to the callouses that had formed over the years, "that's not something you achieve by being a recreational smoker."

"I didn't know heist needed a resident Sherlock Holmes," he snarked, pulling his hands closer to this chest in a protective manner.

I snort slightly. "I didn't know heist needed a resident arsehole, but here you are. Pretty sure The Professor recruited me because of the chronic lack of IQ in this team. Wouldn't you agree, Berlin?"

"That's a very cocky attitude for someone so small," his dark eyes narrow with a smirk, but I could swear there was a twitch of a genuine smile growing in the corner of his lips. Berlin sighed, folding his arm behind his head. 

"But I would have to agree. I have yet to find a worthy opponent for a non mind numbing verbal spar in here."

"You wound me, am I not up to par?" I mocked him lightly, blowing a coil of smoke in his general direction.

"Oh, I haven't said anything yet."

A tense silence falls between us, as if we spent all the courteous sentences in our bags. His sketchbook laid open in his lap, and my fingers hoovered ever so slightly over the keyboard. I bit my lip, checking the time mark on the right hand side of the screen. _Far too early for anyone to be up yet._

"That's quite an unusual brand of cigarettes," Berlin reached up to take the pack off the table, turning it his hand to look at the label. You can always tell one's personality by observing their smoking preference, and he obviously knew it.

Davidoff's, the slim kind, stung the lungs even after half a decade of my nicotine addiction paired wonderfully with a steaming cup of black coffee, the bitterness masking the creamy tint of ash and regret. We all chose our poisons, and it just so happened that I chose to burn my lungs for a rush of satisfaction, a short burst of pleasure rushing through my system. 

"A friend recommended them, been smoking them for three years now. I prefer these over any else to be fair," I admitted haltingly, wondering for a second were was the line that separated us from talking too much about personal lives. I never was very good with lines.

"They bring a dose of nostalgia these days I suppose... We had a falling out a couple months back." It could hardly be called a falling out, not when you counted the bottles thrown in each others direction, the vile, hurtful words we spat out — all out of love rather than true anger. 

Berlin quirked an eyebrow, a look I couldn't describe crossing his face. _Could it have been guilt?_

My throat constricted with a burst unexpected emotion and immediately snapped my laptop shut. "I'll leave you to it, then." I could feel his eyes on my back even when I rounded the corner, deep in the house.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


**CITTÀ DI PALERMO, SICILIA**   
_SEPTEMBER, 2014_   
  
  
  


**SOME PEOPLE SEE PRISON** as a true penance for the crime they committed, a time for self-reflection and search for absolution from their wrongdoings upon the society.

Some even found religion.

On the opposite side of the spectre, the then 26-year-old Mónaco saw it simply as a temporary inconvenience, albeit the one she payed for with exile and six months of life, wasting away among the real criminals at Soto del Real. If anything, she considered her sticky fingers a hobby.

Like retail therapy, only much more satisfying, with the added adrenaline rush of narrow escape.

The country her adoptive parents came from, the lovely Spain, only satisfied her for a while before the pull of the Adriatic coast played on her mind again.

Palermo's grand theatre, Teatro Massimo, would prove to be the perfect backdrop for the first catch after her release. She laid low for a year and a half, biding her time, spending the remains of her Swiss bank account until she couldn't bear more sightseeing around Europe, and the thought of a normal job sent shivers of disgust down her spine.

The young brunette occupied a seat on the terrace of her hotels restaurant, soaking in the still warm, September sun. The cappuccino in her cup long gone cold, she flipped through the second local papers, browsing for a person that might be of great help for her newest project.

She needed an expert, someone that could unintentionally help her with cracking the underground sewer system that branched through the city and connected the all the major buildings with the sea. Someone skilled enough, and yet hopefully enough, not as clever to connect the dots and her with the heist in the process.

All set to throw yet another paper aside, an advert in the corner of the last page caught her eye. It was an advert for tutoring, mainly in physics, but also engineering and IT. A student from some local university, she thought as she scanned the page. 

M.B. _ingegnere di fisica, Palermo_

So she called up the number and set up an hour and a date, confident about the youthful male voice from the other side. 

When the day came around, the young woman found herself walking through one of Palermo's more questionable neighbourhoods, careful to show any labels on her clothes or bag. It was still easy to be robbed in the darker streets, even in the broad daylight. 

The address she was given led to shabby concrete building, by the looks of it made in the late seventies. Not risking the greasy, linoleum covered lift, she quickly found her way up the stairs and up to the fifth floor. She was told the flat she was looking for would be the only one without the last name one the tiny plaque on the door.

The young woman stepped tentatively closer, one hand reaching to grasp the patina covered handle, and pressed down on it. " _Signore Berrote_? I'm here for the hydraulics tutoring." The doors to the quaint studio apartment were slightly open, sounds of pots clattering against one another coming from the depth of it.

"Come in," hollered a man's voice from the messy innards of the studio, a true man cave, as all those realtor series used to call them. It has an industrial chic to it, even though it looks a bit beaten up and rough around the corners.

Grey button up, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a mussed mop of dark hair, the man emerged out of the kitchen with a casual swagger, as if he was and wasn't expecting her at the same time. A tea towel is thrown over his shoulder, carelessly, and the oven is on behind him.

"Martín Berrote, _ingegnere_." His handshake was firm and sure, both hands clasping her manicured one, with an equally bright smile stretching over his face.

"A pleasure," she replies, unable to resist to smile back.   
  


It would be the beginning of something great.  
  
  
  
  
  


...

**Author's Note:**

> Hello to all, and welcome to another one of my works that popped literally out of nowhere. I do not, unfortunately, own the characters of LCDP but I do own Monaco, my OC.  
> My knowledge of Spanish is limited to Duolingo and Google Translate but we learn as we go, am I right?  
> Hope you will enjoy it as much as I do writing it! x


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